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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260924">Biggles Gets About</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyingfan/pseuds/Flyingfan'>Flyingfan</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Biggles Series - W. E. Johns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 06:15:30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23260924</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flyingfan/pseuds/Flyingfan</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This story was written as part of a challenge issued by Wateroverstone and follows on from the events in the chapter of The Camels are Coming, <em>Affaire De Coeur</em></p><p>Biggles seems to lose the plot after Marie. I had to drag this story out of him.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Biggles Gets About</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>In the days that followed his tragic affaire, Biggles flew with an abandon and with such an utter disregard of consequences, that Major Mullen knew that if he persisted it could only be a matter of time before he failed to return. The C.O. had not mentioned the affair of the girl to him, but Biggles knew that he must be aware of the main facts of the case, or he would certainly have asked him why he had been called to Headquarters.</em>
</p><p>*****</p><p>After one particularly fierce dog fight which had left his Camel in such a state that it appeared only the wires were holding it together, Biggles had strode into the Mess and demanded a whisky. The steward raised an eyebrow but it wasn’t his business to say anything, so he produced the required drink and laid it on the table at Biggles’ elbow. Biggles grabbed it and raising the glass to his lips downed it in one and demanded another. Mahoney, who was seated nearby, looked up from the magazine he was flipping through. “Here, I say, steady on, Biggles…” he began, but was startled by Biggles springing to his feet. “Damn your eyes, Mahoney,” he snarled, “can’t a fellow have a drink in peace without listening to sanctimonious claptrap?” And he stormed out, pushing past Algy as that young man came through the door.</p><p>“What's biting him?” Algy asked the Mess in general. “He’s been off his oats for a while now.”</p><p>Mahoney opened his mouth to answer but a a noise of a vehicle being started outside stopped him. He strode swiftly to the window.</p><p>“That's the Nutcracker,” he exclaimed. “He’s stormed off somewhere on her!”</p><p>“That’ll sober him up,” McClaren declared, coming up behind Mahoney. “Mind you, the way he’s flying these days , he won’t live long enough to father any kids. Silly sod.”</p><p>The Nutcracker was an old Douglas motorbike, which someone had found abandoned in a ditch a few months ago. Thinking it would do as a runabout, he had brought it back to the Squadron where, for a small consideration, a couple of fitters had got it roadworthy again, although several components were missing and parts all but unobtainable. Unfortunately, the suspension, such as it was, was shot. Riding it was a nightmare. The owner had tried it and was jogged up and down to such an extent that he declared it was a miracle if he’d ever be able to father a child and it was dubbed the Nutcracker from that moment.</p><p>Despite its obvious failings, it was still used as unofficial transport and by precariously standing on the footrests the resourceful Smyth had managed to repair, it was possible to run into St Omer without doing too much serious damage to one’s nether regions. It was better than walking, but it's reputation had stuck.</p><p>Mahoney spun round and beckoned Algy.</p><p>“The CO’s worried about him,” he confided urgently. “We all are. Can you keep an eye on him?”</p><p>“That's exactly what I have been doing,” Algy said, slightly nettled. “Why do you think I come home from every blasted patrol with my plane with more holes than a perishing sieve?"</p><p>“I know, I know,” Mahoney murmured sympathetically, “ but I’d like you to see if you can do something with him when he’s on the ground. If he’s not up in the air, trying to kill the whole German Air Force single-handed, he’s in the Mess, trying to drink the whole stock of Scotch. He’s finished, if he goes on like this.”</p><p>Where do you think he’s gone now?” Algy asked, resignation in his voice.</p><p>“Your guess is as good as mine, but probably St Omer. You heard him. He wants a drink in peace, but God knows what he’ll get up to in the meantime. Probably get completely rat-arsed and kill himself driving into the Canal. Go after him. Try and stop him making a complete prat of himself. There’s quite a few brass hats around these days, what with these so-called Armistice talks. If Biggles gets entangled with one of them, he’s finished. And us too, probably. Some of ‘em have never been too keen on a separate Air Force and they’ll take any chance they can get to throw us in a bad light."</p><p>“I’ll do my best,” Algy declared, , “but he’s not going to take kindly to me being his nursemaid.”</p><p>“The alternative might mean you being one of his pall- bearers,” Mahoney retorted bluntly. “Take the tender. I’ll clear it with the Skipper.”</p><p>*****</p><p>Biggles had shot out of the Mess with no very clear idea of where he wanted to go. He simply wanted to get away from everyone, and from Mahoney’s censure. He stopped to light a cigarette and his eye fell on the Nutcracker, parked in its usual place by the fire buckets. A sudden urge to get far away overcame him. Almost without thinking, he swung his leg over and started the machine up. and shot off down the road towards St Omer, bending over the handlebars. He’d go there. At least he’d be able to have a drink without having to endure the censure and criticsm of his so-called comrades.</p><p>Arriving at the town he headed to the Market square where there were two or three establishments which would have what he wanted. He pulled up and dismounted stiffly, wishing now he had stood on the footrests. The Nutcracker was living up to its name. He propped the bike up on its stand. and looked around. He lit a cigarette and was just walking towards the nearest cafe when he spied the tender entering the square. He cursed. The driver hadn't yet seen him, but that was only a matter of seconds. Biggles looked round frantically and spotted a deep doorway to his left. He stepped into it and leaned against the door, just as it was opened from the other side. He fell through the doorway, almost knocking over the woman who had opened the door.</p><p>He regained his balance and his eyes fell on the woman. She was middle-aged and dressed all in black. She looked him up and down for a few seconds before speaking. “Ah, <em>Un aviateur anglais</em>. You are eager, monsieur. “</p><p>Biggles started to apologise. He’d obviously blundered into a private house. His eyes took in the small hallway, the threadbare carpet, the pictures on the walls….his eyes nearly popped from his head. The first picture his eye fell on was of a scantily clad female, sitting astride a chair. She wore shoes, and stockings, at the top of which was a garter. Her flimsy top fell off one shoulder while a nipple peeked cheekily over the lowered neckline. Yet another showed the back form of a naked female, her plump bottom slightly thrust out. This one was looking cheekily over her shoulder, and giving a roguish wink.</p><p>His eyes couldn’t help but rove over the others. Each picture was in a similar vein. He spun round, a sinking feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know where he was, but he knew exactly what he was in. He had, literally, stumbled into a brothel. He had to get out. Even as he took a step back towards the door, , the woman was taking his arm and trying to lead him into another room. He started to protest.</p><p>“Madam, I believe I’ve made a mistake,” he began, but stopped. Glancing out out of the small window at the side of the door, he could see the Nutcracker a few yards away. Beside it, the tender had pulled up and Algy was climbing out. It would be Algy, Biggles thought viciously. Why couldn’t he be left alone.</p><p>For a split second, Biggles panicked. Algy mustn’t see him coming out of this place. He couldn’t bear it. After what had happened, to be seen leaving such a place……it would seem almost as if Marie had never existed. There had to be a back way.</p><p>Madame, however, was still exerting pressure on his arm. He didn’t want to go with her. He just wanted to leave and find oblivion in a bottle.</p><p>And almost as though she was reading his mind, Madame spoke again. “A drink, Monsieur? We have the Champagne, or perhaps the Cognac, if you prefer?”</p><p>There was the answer, Biggles thought. He could have a drink or two, and then leave. He’d ask Madame about going out the back later.</p><p>He cast one last glance at Algy, who was now lighting a cigarette and staring thoughtfully at the Nutcracker, before casting his eyes around the rest of the square. Biggles drew back and allowed himself to be led into another room. This was fitted out in the manner of a large sitting room, with several sofas scattered about. In one corner stood a piano, and on the walls were more pictures, similar in nature to those which were in the hall. Some were framed, most were not. He recognised one or two of the latter, for they had been torn from copies of a magazine Biggles knew well. There were a few scattered about in the Mess in Maranique. La Vie Parisienne was a mildly risqué erotic publication, with short stories and gossip about the latest happenings, but it was the pictures which held the interest of the Squadron. Occasionally, one or other of the more fluent French speakers, and Biggles included himself in that category, would read out the short stories for the benefit of the non-French speaking members of the Squadron. Most were as risqué as the pictures.</p><p>The room was not empty of people. On one sofa sat an officer , sipping Champagne, laughing and conversing with two girls who were seated on another opposite him, each preening herself in a manner that showed their charms. Yet another officer sat at the piano in the corner, rifling through the music which was scattered along its top. A girl stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder, leaning over him in such a way that he couldn’t be ignorant of what she was offering him. Yet another sofa held an artillery officer, a girl on his knee. One of his arms was around the waist of the girl, the other was resting on her lap. She was holding a Champagne glass to his lips. The officer took a sip of the fizz and then lowered his wet lips to her chest where his chin pushed aside the frothy lace and latched his lips onto one nipple.</p><p>“Martine, perhaps Msieur would be more comfortable upstairs,” the older woman remonstrated gently, but with a hint of steel in her voice. Public teasing was one thing, but when it came down to what the girl was being paid to do, it should be done in private. This was an Officers establishment, and certain standards had to be kept. Besides, time was money. The girl should know that and shouldn't be encouraging the young officer to take his time.</p><p>She turned to Biggles. Artillery Officers were ten a penny. Aviateurs on the other hand, whilst not uncommon, held a hint of glamour and danger and would always get the best she could give.</p><p>““Please sit down, monsieur. “ She indicated the vacant sofa. “I will get one of my girls to bring you a drink. Would you prefer Champagne or Cognac.”</p><p>Biggles expressed a wish for Cognac. He sat on the edge of the sofa, stiff and formal. Madame looked at him keenly. She thought this was his very first time. She was not to know that Biggles was holding in all the anger and pent up frustration of the last few days. That his only wish at that moment was to be left alone with a bottle. He was scarcely aware of a woman standing in front of him. Two women. Madame and a young woman carrying a tray bearing a bottle of cognac, and two glasses.</p><p>“Marie will look after you,” Madame said and walked off.</p><p>“Marie?” The name penetrated Biggles’ subconscious. “But…what are you doing here?” His voice took on an eager note.</p><p>The girl laughed and sat down beside him. “I’m here to take care of you, cherie,” she murmured, as she poured a measure of cognac into his glass and a smaller one into her own.</p><p>Biggles looked at the girl. She was diminutive, not above 5 foot in height. Her hair was black and curly, and it tumbled over her shoulders where a swathe of it lay over one of her small breasts, which were barely covered by a lace robe. which stopped at her hips. A pair of lace knickers barely covered her. Her black stockings were each held in place by pink garters. Her scent assailed his nostrils and took him straight back to a certain orchard in the long ago that was not too long ago. By a cruel coincidence this Marie wore the same scent as his Marie. He raised his glass and drained it, his hand not quite steady. A ball of fire hit his stomach.</p><p>Marie leaned into Biggles, allowing her top to slip off one shoulder, as she topped up his glass. The memory of one night in the Orchard, under the stars came to him. Someone in the room laughed, a man’s laugh. Biggles looked round abruptly. The man on the sofa had risen and held his hands out to the two girls. “If I can't choose, I shall have you both,” he declared, and helped them to their feet. They walked arm in arm across the room and began to ascend the stairs together.</p><p>This seemed to bring Biggles to his senses. He noticed the man at the piano was still rifling through the music and the girl with him was looking exasperated. The poor sod was probably trying to pluck up courage to take the next step. Biggles gulped the Cognac back and stood up. He had to leave. Then he remembered Algy. In one swift stride, he went over to the window and cautiously lifted one of the heavy drapes that covered it. Algy was still there, only now he was standing beside the tender, looking round impatiently.</p><p>“Blast you, Algy,” Biggles muttered. ”Can’t you mind your own bloody business?” He dropped the drapes and turned to Marie, who was watching him, a look of apprehension in her eyes. She automatically went into her routine. She placed a hand on his arm. “Is something wrong?” She asked. She had a soft voice and her accent showed she was not local, but her English was good enough. Somewhere at the back of his mind Biggles wondered where she had learned his language.</p><p>He looked at her. She wasn't his Marie. His Marie would not be in a place like this. But then, he suddenly thought viciously, his Marie had prostituted herself. Not for money, but for her country. Did that make her any better than the girl who stood before him? But then again, his Marie had risked her life to save him. And he hadn’t been there. He’d let her down.</p><p>He started to say something but at that moment the sound of the front door opening and several men coming in, stopped him. He could hear Madame's murmured welcome. “I must go,” he muttered, “is there a back door?”<br/>
Marie came forward and placed a hand on his arm. If this one went, she would have to go with one of the officers currently crowding into the room. They were loud and coarse compared to this one.</p><p>“Monsieur, I don't understand. Doesn't Monsieur like me?”</p><p>Biggles looked down on her, now slightly confused. The Cognac he had been drinking had gone to his head, but it never occurred to him that that was what was causing him confusion. He’d been hitting the whisky bottle quite a bit lately and had prided himself on being able to take his drink.</p><p>“I need to get out of here,” he murmured, distractedly. Marie took the hint. “This way,” she told him softly, leading him past the group of noisy officers and towards the staircase. For some reason Biggles was never able to explain to himself afterwards, he allowed himself to be led upstairs. He followed Marie into a room at the end of a short landing. He looked around. He saw an armchair, a washstand with bowl and ewer, long curtains at the window and, most prominent of all, a bed.</p><p>He was conscious that Marie was drawing him over to the bed. She stood in front of him. She was slightly puzzled by the expression on his face. He had seemed so angry, earlier, now he looked a little lost. She didn’t want to frighten him off. She searched in her mind for something to lighten the mood a little.</p><p>“How tall are you, Captain?” She asked softly.</p><p>The unexpected question seemed to bring Biggles back from wherever he was. ““What? How tall am I? Five foot eight. Why?”</p><p>“Ah, you English with your feet and inches. But never mind.” Marie placed her small hands on the waistband of his trousers. “Let us forget about the feet and I will pay attention to the inches,” and her nimble fingers began to undo his buttons.</p><p>*****</p><p>Outside, Algy had begun to get cold and bored. He toyed with the idea of going into a cafe to get warm, but he might miss Biggles if he did. He got back into the cab of the tender and lit a cigarette. Mahoney’s instructions had been clear. Keep Biggles out of trouble. Well, he couldn’t do that if he couldn’t find him. The thought suddenly occurred to him that maybe Biggles had spotted him waiting with the Nutcracker and wouldn’t come out until he was gone. Making up his mind, he finished his cigarette and tossed the stub out of the window.</p><p>Leaving the Nutcracker where Biggles had parked it, he drove the tender across the square and down one of the narrow side streets at the side of the Hôtel de Ville. He turned right, carried on for about two hundred yards and turned right again. He was now in another side street. He drove cautiously along, this time for about fifty yards and then he stopped. From here he had a view of the strip of square where he had left the Nutcracker, and he was confident that Biggles wouldn’t be able to spot him. He put his feet up on the dashboard, crossed his arms and prepared to wait.</p><p>It was, he reckoned about thirty minutes later that he finally saw Biggles come out of a house at the opposite end of the square. Algy grunted in satisfaction, which turned to a small laugh as he spied the blue lamp at the side of the door which was just closing behind Biggles.</p><p>“You’re a dark horse,” he murmured, appreciatively. “No wonder you didn’t want to be seen.”</p><p>He watched as Biggles swung his leg over the Nutcracker and started it. Algy grinned again as he started the tender. He’d only ridden the Nutcracker once and he’d vowed never again. Biggles was welcome to it.</p><p>Algy took the tender down a short cut, anxious to get back to Maranique before Biggles. He parked the tender outside the Mess and by the time Biggles came in he was ordering a drink. Biggles glared at him. Algy ignored him.</p><p>Biggles, still not quite sure how he was supposed to feel after the last hour or so, ordered a whisky. He knocked it back in one go. His eye fell on a man who had just walked in the door. The man was tall. Biggles recognised him as one of Wilks’ men and an evil grin spread across his face. “Hey, Mulrose, how tall are you?”</p><p>Mulrose looked across at Biggles trying to decide whether he should answer or not. “Six foot one, why d’you want to know?” He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.</p><p>”Ha!” Biggles crowed triumphantly as the whole Mess looked on, mystified. Biggles, with a huge smirk on his face, ordered another whisky. .</p><p>Algy ordered a whisky too. If he was going to keep an eye on Biggles he’d need it.</p><p>****</p><p>A week later the Armistice was signed.</p><p>THE END</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>During WW1 there were two types of brothels available to the Allies. Blue Lamp brothels for the Officers usually resembled private clubs and, if available, condoms were provided. Red Lamp brothels for the other ranks were much more spartan. Fortunately, Biggles fell into a Blue Lamp establishment.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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